


queenmaker

by adreamaloud, daneorange (adreamaloud)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28241910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamaloud/pseuds/adreamaloud, https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamaloud/pseuds/daneorange
Summary: Citizen Clarke, interrupted: Clarke Griffin is a newly retired political operator roped back into the grind for one last job. Not quite an Our Brand is Crisis AU.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 19
Kudos: 81





	1. flamekeeper

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone! I've been working on this on-off the entire quarantine, and I was hoping I'd be able to share it in time for the holidays, so. Here it is. Updates will be staggered. Enjoy :)

By the time Clarke finishes the phone call, her coffee has already gone cold.

_Shit,_ she thinks, tossing her phone on the kitchen counter as she retrieves her mug. _What a way to start the day._

She unfolds her newspaper and picks up where she left off, scanning through the reportage on the upcoming national elections splashed across the front page. Though the elections are still some six months away, this particular election has been touted as a ‘gamechanger’—a referendum on the existing administration, some have said.

_But then, so was the last one,_ Clarke thinks ruefully, remembering how the current dispensation is basically a continuation of the last one, and how that landslide win had been the final straw for her. Clarke had put so much _hope_ into the last elections, thinking the nation would finally wake up, for a change. Truth be told, that was the last time she was truly hopeful.

And now, here she is: Citizen Clarke, totally uninvolved, just idly trawling through newspapers without agenda nor assignment. Just a hobby. A spectator sport. Nothing too serious, nothing too _invested._

Clarke is _done_ investing.

When her phone rings a second time, she almost nudges it off the table in her surprise. No one calls these days, or at least, not too early in the morning.

It’s Marcus. Again. Clarke groans, picking up. “I thought we’d said goodbye already,” she says by way of greeting.

“Have you thought about it?” asks Marcus on the other end. Clarke can hear the faint sound of the morning news playing in the background; man, she does _not_ miss doing morning shows.

“About what?”

“Clarke, _please._ ”

“I’m retired, Marcus,” Clarke says. “I’m tired. I’m done.”

Marcus laughs. “You’re the most passionate person I know.”

“Don’t start,” Clarke snaps, rolling her eyes, unable to keep the disdain out of her voice. And then, softer: “There’s no point, Marcus. We’ve lost.”

The pause on the other end of the line goes quite a while that Clarke wonders if he’s already hung up. “You’ve always been excited about this season,” he begins, voice low. “It didn’t even matter _who_ we were batting for, you just—you wanted to be in the middle of it all.”

“Well,” Clarke sighs. She knows exactly what Marcus is trying to do; in fact, she’d be the first to admit, she isn’t proud of her entire _repertoire_ of clients through the years. But she already tried making peace with that portion of her life, and Marcus can no longer weaponize what she has already settled with herself.

“Well what?”

“Well, that girl is gone,” says Clarke simply. “Sorry, seems like you got the wrong number.”

She hangs up at that, but she holds her phone in her hand and stares at it, wondering and marveling at what she’d just told him: _That girl is gone._ To hear it out loud, it’s so strange, and so _final._ So _real._ Clarke surveys the still-open newspaper on the counter, her half-empty coffee cup, and the silent newscast playing on her television on mute in her living room.

_Is she, really?_

When her phone rings a third time, she just puts it on speaker and says nothing, so Marcus goes ahead with his spiel: “What if we could change it this time, Clarke? What if this time, we finally have a winning shot?”

_That’s what you said the last time,_ Clarke almost spits out, but she holds her tongue. “That line may have worked on me then, but it’s not doing it for me this time around, sorry.”

“Please Clarke.” Marcus is begging, and Clarke would be lying if she said she does not enjoy it one bit. “Just take a look at what we have.” 

Clarke fiddles with the edge of a newspaper page before turning it over and closing it altogether and folding it in half. On the wall, her empty calendar hangs, unmarked. She stares at it and wonders about the other life she could have lived—the life she could be living _right now._ Smiling, she reaches for the remote and turns off her TV.

“I’m sorry, Marcus. Good luck on the upcoming elections,” she just says, turning off her phone for good.

*****

If anything, Marcus Kane is a persistent man, and Clarke knows as much. So it doesn’t really surprise nor faze her that he shows up knocking at her door the following morning, bagel in one hand, and Raven Reyes on the other.

Clarke tries very hard to suppress her smile, but in the end, she lets a small one stay at the corner of her lips, if only to acknowledge an old friend.

“You don’t ever play fair, do you?” Clarke tells Marcus, before welcoming Raven with a hug.

“Somebody told me you couldn’t resist bagels,” says Marcus.

“Hey Clarke,” says Raven. “Long time.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, taking the bagels off Marcus’s hands. “You look good.”

Raven does the cursory twirl and takes a bow. “Thanks. I worked out—I had a _lot_ of free time in between campaign seasons.” She side-eyes Marcus and lets out a dry laugh.

Clarke shakes her head as she ushers them in, gesturing haphazardly at the living room. “Sorry for the mess,” she says. “I wasn’t exactly expecting visitors.”

“Sorry for dropping in like this,” says Marcus. “But you _know_ why we’re here.”

“I already said no on the phone,” Clarke says flatly. And then, to Raven: “And if you think these bagels are going to change my mind—”

Raven laughs, wagging her finger at Clarke. “We expect no such thing of these bagels—these poor things,” she says, taking a bite and chewing. And then, off Clarke’s little laugh: “I _did_ bring you something else.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at her, watching as Raven reaches into her bag for a folder. _Oh, hell no._ “Raven,” she sighs, putting a hand firmly on top of it, to signify her intention to keep it closed. “What is this?”

“Photos from Polis Group’s last annual stockholders meeting,” says Raven matter-of-factly, nudging Clarke’s hand off the surface to open the folder and reveal the pictures.

Clarke tries hard not to let her surprise show. _What?_ “What does Polis Group have to do with anything?” she asks, interest legitimately piqued. This was clearly _not_ the conversation she thought she was having with Marcus. “I thought we were talking about the elections?”

“We were,” Marcus says, turning the first photo over to reveal a close-up photo of Lexa Vine—one of Polis Group’s star reporters.

“She’s your candidate?” asks Clarke, lifting a photo off the pile. Here, Lexa is speaking to someone off camera, her smile measured. There’s an air of confidence about her that Clarke cannot deny; after all, Vine has spent a better part of the last decade working her way up at Polis’s flagship daily, Flamekeeper.

“Interested?” asks Marcus. Clarke drops the photo back on the table before grabbing a bagel and biting into it wordlessly. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Stop baiting her,” Raven intervenes, giving Kane’s shoulder a shove. And then, to Clarke: “She isn’t.”

“What? I thought—isn’t this an election job?”

“It is,” says Kane. “Just not in the way you think.”

Clarke eyes Raven. "Not in the way I think?"

"Flamekeeper's executive editor position was recently vacated," says Raven. "Vine is in the running for it."

"So?" asks Clarke, though immediately she realizes how her tone must have come across. "I mean—I have no argument that she's probably the most qualified for the job. I've read her."

"The business group running Polis thinks she's too anti-government," Kane chimes in. Clarke finishes her bagel, the links slowly connecting in her head. "They're fielding a more... _business-minded_ candidate for the job."

"Ah," says Clarke. "Well, isn't that their Board's prerogative?"

"Well—technically," Raven says. "But we all know that's bullshit, don't we?"

Clarke sighs. She agrees—and truth be told, also a bit more than piqued. It's not exactly the feeling she wishes to cultivate at the moment. "I still don't see why you're here, though."

"In the past, we've focused on supporting candidates head-on—we know very well where that took us," says Kane. "This time, we're focusing on building support around them."

"And Flamekeeper's support is crucial, isn't it?" says Clarke, the pieces clicking in her head. Its readership is arguably significant—no longer as extensive as it had once been, what with print declining in general and all that, but still significant enough that reportage gets the attention of key decision-makers all over.

"Polis Group's candidate for executive editor is Cage Wallace," says Kane.

Clarke walks over to the refrigerator to get a cold bottle of water at the news. "I didn't know Dante Wallace's son eventually went into journalism?" she says, tone measured. After all, Kane still hasn't told her _why_ exactly they want to get involved—what's in it for them? "But it would be a sweet revenge for his dad, won't it? To see the paper that once exposed him for corruption eventually find its way right under his son's thumb."

"These elections are too important to risk Wallace controlling the most popular agenda-setting newspaper in town," says Kane. "Vine _must_ get that post."

_Building support,_ Clarke just thinks. Maybe Kane does have a new strategy this time around. "What's your endgame, Marcus?"

"Wallace is supporting a candidate for Congress. We're campaigning for his opponent."

_There it is._ "Kind of a roundabout way to go about it, don't you think?" she challenges.

"It is the way it is," says Kane. "The terrain's always changing, Clarke."

_Not all of it,_ Clarke thinks idly. The Wallaces have been politically powerful for decades, and while Dante may no longer be in office, his influence can still be felt in many places. "What makes you think I'm suited to _traverse_ it?"

“You and Lexa—weren’t you in state uni like, at the same time?” asks Raven.

Clarke takes her time answering. “Ahead of me by a couple of years, I think. Poli Sci. She was student council head, but then again, her father was a popular journalist at the time—the name recall was automatic.”

“But she was already out of uni when her father got killed?” Raven asks.

“Fresh out of her Public Administration masters, if I recall correctly,” Marcus adds. “Been following her father's footsteps at Flamekeeper since.”

“We all thought she’d go into law,” says Clarke, glancing at Lexa’s photo still on top of the pile.

“Would have made such a popular hotshot lawyer—I mean, the state uni’s mass comm _building_ was eventually renamed after her father,” Raven notes.

“There are _streets_ in the goddamn capital that are named after her father,” Clarke corrects. “It’s a wonder the current dispensation hasn’t renamed them all just yet.”

Kane sighs. “Who knows? The longer they stay in power—”

Clarke rolls her eyes, knowing a Marcus Kane segue when she hears one. “Don’t start,” she warns.

“It’s true though,” Raven intervenes, and Clarke remembers _why_ they’re here. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“You already have my answer. Whatever this is—I want no part in it,” says Clarke. “I’ve shed that part of my life already.”

Raven looks around, before taking a glance at the pile of photos in the middle of the table. “Have you?”

Despite herself, Clarke chews on her lip. _God damn it, Raven._ “Besides,” she says, faltering. “What makes you so certain I’m still that talented girl you once knew? I haven’t been out there in _ages_.”

“Come on Clarke,” says Marcus. “Your last elections weren’t that long ago.”

The way Clarke still feels that characteristic pinch at the memory confirms this, but she says nothing.

“Just—come meet her, Clarke. And _then_ make your decision,” Raven pleads.

Clarke runs a fingertip gingerly across Lexa’s photo. “What makes you think that would change my mind?”

“Maybe it would, maybe it won’t. But we owe it to ourselves to give it a try,” says Marcus. And then, off Clarke’s long-ish pause: “So.”

_Ah fuck it._ “Whatever,” says Clarke, walking them to the door. “Text me the details. Then I’ll think about it. Maybe.”

Raven smiles before hugging Clarke. “That ‘maybe’ is all we need.”

*

After Clarke closes the door on Raven and Kane, she shuts her phone off and goes on her laptop. _Might as well get started on the research_ , she just thinks, scanning the Flamekeeper's website and clicking through their recent reportage.

She keys in Lexa's byline and reads through her latest articles—she's been hard at work following the President's press conferences, nonsensical as they were. Clarke thinks it's a ridiculous waste of talent—she's better off running after corruption exposes, instead of being this glorified transcriber of a man who hardly makes sense even on a good day.

The Flamekeeper's website offers Clarke nothing that she doesn't already know—Lexa is sharp, hard-hitting, prolific. Normally, these attributes would position her as a front-runner, but depending on how the strained politics in Polis would play out—Clarke's in disbelief, how something as critical as the executive editor position could be so vulnerable to all that.

Frustrated at this dead end, Clarke opens another tab and does what every reasonable person would: She googles Lexa outright.

A flurry of photos appear in her search—many of them don't even have her in it, and she assumes these are images from her coverages: Various photos of presidential spokespersons talking, mostly, and other official events. The personal photos come much later—soon, there are occasional shots of her in casual jeans while attending a local sporting event or with other reporters—nothing out of the ordinary, until one particular photo catches Clarke’s eye.

In it, Lexa is all smiles at the camera, arm around the woman beside her, equally radiant. Judging from the photo's resolution, it must be an old one—something one would find in a defunct MySpace account. Clarke right-clicks and saves it, making a mental note to ask Raven about it later.

(She hates the thought immediately.)

Before she realizes what she’s even doing, Clarke has amassed a disorganized set of notes, just trawling through Lexa’s materials available online—from Flamekeeper's archives to her carefully curated social media presence, noting how she hasn't really posted a photo with _her face_ in it at all lately.

_Secretive,_ Clarke thinks, chewing at the end of her pen before writing that word down and underlining it twice for emphasis.

Her Messenger pings, and she regrets the carelessness of not logging off immediately. Raven’s name blinks in the taskbar. _Your phone dead?_ She asks.

Sighing, Clarke types, _Just busy._

_With?_

Raven knows. Of course, she does. _You left me homework._

Raven appears to be typing and erasing, typing and erasing, before her final response eventually finds its form:

_!!!!!_

Clarke sits back, giving in to a small smile. She could imagine Raven straightening up in her seat or walking about her flat excitedly. _What’s that supposed to mean?_

_You’re stalking her,_ Raven says. _I’d give you tips but you’ve probably trawled through everything by now._

Clarke glances at her notes, at the words she’d encircled and asterisked all over the pages: _young, prolific, hard-hitting, secretive._ She contemplates taking a haphazard snapshot and sending it over, but ultimately decides against it.

_You know me too well,_ Clarke just says, settling. And then: _What do you really think of her?_

Raven takes her time, letting Clarke stare at the empty message box. She wonders about Raven’s misgivings—if anything, she’s just like Clarke, if not a bit more jaded. Clarke wonders how she’s still in this with Kane after all those years—after seeing all that they have.

Clarke’s thinking about the word _battle-scarred_ when Raven’s reply comes: _If you ask me,_ it begins. _I think she's the real deal._

Clarke has to blink at that, re-reading that short response over and over. _That good, huh?_ she types back, after a while.

_Come on. She’s got the surname, the track record, probably the stamina for the job,_ Raven points out. _Polis would be stupid to pass her up._

_Right,_ says Clarke. _You think their Board is ready for someone like her at the top?_

_They should be,_ Raven replies. _You do know this means you're probably about 75% onboard, right?_

To which Clarke sends a selfie where she’s flipping Raven off with both middle fingers. Clarke laughs as she watches Raven’s ellipses moving.

_See?_ she says. _There's the old Clarke I know._

Clarke doesn’t know if she’s ready to take that as a compliment.

*

Lexa sets their first meeting right in the middle of their planning activities in a hotel four and a half hours away, and Clarke is mostly surprised to find out how _urgent_ it all apparently is. Kane and Raven pick her up and they all make the trip aboard Kane’s van, still reliable after all these years.

“I can’t believe this van is still alive,” says Clarke, smoothing the leather seat underneath her. “How many elections has this seen?”

Kane just glares at her on the rearview mirror. “It’s not _that_ old.” Raven, sitting shotgun, just laughs, knowing better.

Despite the long-standing joke about the van’s fitness to travel, they end up with a relatively uneventful journey, thankfully unmarred by breakdowns and other interruptions.

The road to Polis Group's management training facility is long and winding, and the highways, though perfectly paved, zig and zag around mountains. One had the option to take a 45-minute plane ride to cut the trip short, but Kane always loved a long drive, and besides there’s a budget to contend with.

“It surprises me that she did not want to wait until they were back in their office in the city,” says Clarke finally. They’d spent as much of the ride in quiet, but Clarke figures it’s probably best to address the elephant in the room now for proper handling later. “Are meetings like this usually this urgent for her?”

“Only the big ones,” says Kane. “She wanted to show you her people.”

“Me?” asks Clarke. “I haven’t even taken your offer.”

“Maybe that’s part of the pitch,” Raven says, just as they pass through the town's welcome arc, and Clarke immediately turns to look out her window.

Thankfully, the trip is picturesque. Old but well-maintained houses line the streets that lead to the facility, a commanding structure right at the end of the main road, around which all traffic diverts. Clarke takes it all in, watching through tinted glass as they drive into the gates, right underneath a canopy of trees.

At the lobby, they are greeted by the head of security, who escorts them into the elevators without so much as a word. The trip up to Lexa’s office on the 7th floor is quiet, and Clarke uses the moment to compose herself, hand in pocket fiddling with her phone.

The lift opens to a corridor lit by floor to ceiling windows. At the end of the short walk is a pair of impressive wooden doors, behind which, Clarke can only assume, is _the_ office.

The security guy turns to his radio and murmurs something about visitors. Clarke hangs back with Kane and Raven, who are both looking out the windows, entranced by the view. Clarke can’t help but be mesmerized herself at the sight it makes from up here—colorful roofs sitting side-by-side casting shade upon the streets, bustling with people trying to make it to lunchtime.

_Lunchtime._ Clarke feels her stomach grumble at the reminder. They’d eaten a somewhat heavy breakfast along the way, but Clarke must have already burned it as she napped during the ride over.

“She’ll be seeing you now.” A deep voice breaks Clarke’s train of thought, and she gives a little jump as she feels a hand wrap around her elbow. It’s Raven, tugging her along.

“Showtime, Griffin,” she just says.

Lexa Vine is standing over her table, scanning an array of half-open newspapers and magazines when they first see her. She has a white dress shirt on, sleeves rolled up to her elbow. Clarke catches a glint of sunlight as it bounces off Lexa’s watch when she glances at it.

She looks up as she realizes she is no longer alone. “How was your journey?” she asks finally, smiling at Marcus, who receives her handshake in kind. Clarke notes how measured she seems right here: Not too warm but not aloof either. There is a quiet confidence about her that Clarke is immediately drawn to; something not quite arrogant, yet not at all meek nor shy.

Clarke is still staring at their joined hands when Lexa speaks to her. “So you’re the one, huh?” Clarke looks up, blinking at Lexa, who has her head tilted to the side and is regarding Clarke with a curious half-smile.

“Excuse me?” asks Clarke, smiling warily in return.

Lexa takes her hand from Marcus and offers it to her. “Sorry, I only mean to say—Marcus and Raven have told me about you.”

When she smiles at Clarke, Clarke’s mind goes blank. _Oh boy._ “Only good stories I hope?” she says, recovering. She tries to keep her grip firm but not too tight nor eager.

“Your reputation precedes you, Ms Griffin,” says Lexa, letting her hand go finally. She gestures helplessly at the periodicals on her desk. “I hope you forgive the mess,” she says, pointing to the seats. “Please.”

Marcus takes his seat and Clarke and Raven follow suit. “How have you been, Ms Vine?”

“ _Lexa_ ,” she corrects, sitting back in her chair. It creaks as she adjusts herself, crossing her legs and threading her fingers together under her chin. “There’s a new readership survey out, and I heard we’re doing marginally better.”

“Who's to say print is dead, no?” says Marcus.

Lexa looks out her window, lips thin. “It is not,” she just says. And then, turning her eyes back to Clarke: “Do you believe that?”

Clarke feels her eyes widen, like a deer caught in the proverbial headlights. She’s known about the surveys, but is quite unwilling to comment on results she hasn’t even seen nor studied. “Well, I—”

“—she’s still getting her bearings,” Raven finishes for her, when she notices how she is stumbling. And then, off Lexa’s inquiring look: “Retirement, you know.”

“ _Raven,_ ” Clarke starts, throwing her a sharp glare. Raven smirks, but reaches over to pat Clarke on the knee, as if in apology.

Marcus leans in finally, hand in mid-air as if to break them up. “Clarke is _studying,_ for now,” he says to Lexa. “It’s what Clarke does best.”

“It takes as long as it takes,” says Lexa, indecipherably. “I just hope not too long.”

_What does that even mean?_ Clarke wonders. By now, Lexa’s mood has turned a bit more somber as she picks a magazine back up and thumbs through the pages idly for a handful of tense, quiet moments.

And then: “Can I interest you in some lunch?” she asks finally, looking up from her magazine to set her eyes on Clarke, of all people. “What do you think, Clarke?”

Clarke reaches for her stomach absently. “If it’s not an imposition, of course.”

“Not at all,” says Lexa, nodding at Clarke before getting up and reaching for her cell phone, patting around her desk to search for it and eventually finding it under one of the open papers. “Ah,” she mutters, her lips quirking around the small sound.

Clarke diverts her eyes immediately, somewhat thankful to realize soon enough that she’d been staring.

On her phone, Lexa talks about getting lunch for the group, and asks the person on the other end of the line to join in for a ‘quick lunch meet’. _So much for hitting the ground running,_ Clarke just thinks, trying not to stare at Lexa’s profile, silhouetted against the window.

“There—that shouldn’t take too long,” says Lexa, turning back to them as she pockets her phone. “I hope you don’t mind—I’ve let Anya handle our orders. She’s joining us in a bit.”

Raven noticeably perks up at that. “Oh, been a while—what has Rivers been up to?” _Rivers?_ Clarke thinks, lifting an eyebrow. Raven simply shrugs it off. “What? We’re due an update anyway.”

The way Lexa looks like she’s trying to keep her face straight—like she’s in on a secret and is doing her best to keep her mouth shut about it—has Clarke feeling a bit… _ticklish._ That should bother her, right? But it doesn’t, or at least not yet. _What am I even thinking?_ Clarke scolds herself, shaking her head. _Must be the hunger, must be—_

She hasn’t even finished parsing her thoughts when they are interrupted by knocking on the door, followed by the sound of it swinging open.

“I guess we’re about to find out, aren’t we,” Lexa smiles as she mutters, gathering her newspapers and filing them away, trying to make space on her desk, ostensibly for food.

Marcus stands to acknowledge the new arrival, approaching her with a handshake. “Ms Rivers,” he greets, smile warm. “How have you been?”

Anya receives his handshake briskly, her smile in response curt. “Marcus,” she just says. “Thanks for coming.” When she turns her eyes over to Raven and Clarke, Clarke feels a sharp shiver run through her, like someone had just trailed a cold knife edge down her back.

“You remember Raven Reyes?” asks Marcus, stepping aside to let Raven through. Clarke hangs back, watching their interaction—measured, like Lexa earlier. _Are they related?_ she considers briefly, trying to trace as far back the Vine family tree as she could in her head. She’s not familiar with this woman, but judging by Lexa’s relaxed disposition around her, she’s trusted.

“Glad to see you again, Raven,” says Anya, and Clarke can see through Raven’s efforts not to smile too widely in response to Anya’s hand in hers. Clarke makes a mental note to prod later. And then: “You must be Clarke Griffin.”

Her look is a shade warmer now—perhaps an offshoot of her small moment with Raven earlier. There could be a blush there if one squinted; but then again, it could be the heat. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms Rivers,” says Clarke, shaking her hand in kind.

“Great to see the whole team acquainted,” says Lexa, clapping her hands to refocus the group’s attention, before turning to Anya. “Where’s the food, Ahn?”

Anya adjusts her rolled up sleeve in kind as she perches herself on the corner of Lexa’s desk. “Coming right up as we speak,” she says. “Meantime—what’d I miss?”

“Marcus and I were just talking about the latest surveys.”

Anya nods. “The Board's happy about that,” she says, crossing her arms. Lexa sits back and looks at her, like she’s challenging that claim. “They _are_. And with you running that special report toward the end of the month—focus group discussions are about to yield even better quantitative results. Should bump up ratings a bit by the next survey round.”

“Special report?” Clarke asks.

“We’re making a significant push for the Anti-Discrimination Bill before Congress goes on holiday,” Lexa explains.

“Of course,” says Clarke, nodding. That makes sense—an agenda-setting paper should be at the forefront of landmark legislative efforts like that. “When is it coming out?”

Lexa smiles. “Already arranging your schedule around mine, Ms Griffin?” The tone is easy and teasing; surprising, yes, but casual enough for Clarke to return the banter. She even affords a quick laugh after her shock has faded.

“Shouldn’t I be?” she asks back, keeping close to Lexa’s tone.

“From what I understand the last time Marcus and I talked, it’s still completely up to you,” Lexa replies.

_Oh._ “Is it?” Clarke shifts her eyes over to Marcus, who simply nods. _Maybe that’s part of the pitch,_ she hears Raven say again in her head. She looks at Lexa, trying not to linger in inappropriate places, like that jawline, or at the way she has her fingertips gripped around the smooth wooden corner of her table.

_Raven knew exactly what she was walking me into,_ she concludes.

“No pressure intended, of course,” Lexa says lightly, pushing herself off her table edge just as the knock comes. “First—we eat.” The door opens quickly after, and in comes lunch in three paper bags. “What are we having, Ahn?”

“Parmigiana from the caterers downstairs,” she says, gesturing for them to help themselves. “Bon appétit, or something.”

Lexa moves past Anya, digging in first and serving them out. Embarrassed, Clarke reaches for hers, hand shooting out and brushing against Lexa’s.

“I—Ms Vine,” she says, clearing her throat. And then, off the look Lexa gets in her face: “Sorry. _Lexa._ ”

“It’s fine,” she says, handing Clarke her fork. “I’m still trying to convince you, aren’t I?”

That earns a laugh from Marcus. “Thank _you._ ”

“You said I had a bit of time to decide,” says Clarke, smiling in kind. It’s been a while since she’s felt this remotely wanted—even if it’s for a job she thought she’d already left behind forever.

_Never say forever,_ she reminds herself, taking a bite off her lunch, hoping for distraction. The cheese melts in her mouth, prompting the smallest of sounds.

“Are you all right, Ms Griffin?” It’s Lexa again, brows knit, curious. She sets her fork down and hands Clarke a napkin as she chews.

Clarke takes it, her cheeks feeling warm. “I—thanks,” she says, dabbing at her lips. When she glances over at Raven, she finds her in an intense conversation with Anya, whereas Marcus has just excused himself to take a phone call.

Which brings her back to Lexa. Who is now regarding her curiously, in between forkfuls of parmigiana. Clarke reaches for the glass of water on the table and drinks from it slowly.

“Have we met before?” asks Lexa, voice serious but light.

“In a different lifetime, maybe?” Clarke offers. Lexa just squints at her. “If you must know, we were in state uni at the same time. Sort of.”

Lexa lights up at that, like that answers all the questions in her head. “State uni, huh?” she asks, before tilting her head, momentarily appearing confused. “But not—not Political Science, right? Because we would definitely have had classes together, and we—didn’t. Did we?”

Clarke shakes her head. “I’m a comms graduate,” she explains, and Lexa leans in closer, an elbow casually on the table now between them. Clarke tries not to get too conscious. “I _did_ vote for you though, that time you ran for university student council.”

Lexa hides her face in her palms and _blushes_ ; Clarke tries to push aside how it makes her feel for the meantime, but she bookmarks it anyhow: one day, if it comes down to it and Clarke has to point to a _moment_ , it would be this.

“All too long ago, wasn’t that?” Lexa says finally from under her hands.

“Your posters were all over campus—my friends were fans, they put yours up in our college.”

“Talk about grassroots campaigning,” says Lexa, a confident smile slowly making its way back on her face as she recovers. And then, after finally composing herself: “Come work with us, Clarke.”

Clarke averts her eye. “You said Marcus and Raven told you about me—what exactly did they say?”

“That you were the best,” she says, without missing a beat. “That you’ll be a great teammate.”

“And you take their word for it?”

“I’ve worked with Marcus long enough to trust his choices,” says Lexa. “Besides—I have a good feeling about you.”

“You do?”

“I do.” The way Lexa nods so sincerely warms the growing pits at the bottom of Clarke’s stomach. _Am I touched or am I terrified?_ Clarke isn’t so sure. “What do you say?”

_Fuck it,_ she just thinks. She blinks as she looks up from her meal and searches for Lexa’s eye. “Fine,” she says finally, and Lexa’s smile turns even wider. “Let’s do this then.”


	2. the client

To say that Lexa isn’t like Clarke’s past clients is an understatement, and it’s not just because Lexa is not a politician—she's also Clarke's first woman client. To be honest, the fact that she’d been working with male candidates all this time hadn’t even occurred to Clarke—until she started working with Lexa's team.

Officially, she'd been brought in as an editorial consultant, monitoring stakeholder sentiment to reportage. Unofficially, she'd been in charge of managing Lexa's popularity internally, scanning specifically for unusual, unsupportive movement from the business group.

As such, she starts and ends her days in the room right next to Lexa's, scanning the news and monitoring Lexa as she asked her questions at the afternoon press conferences, eavesdropping for comments in the newsroom and on social, and prepping all of these for Lexa's reference that night upon her return to the office.

All Clarke could think about, the first few months, is her general ‘rust’—after all, she had been sitting it out for a bit, and she understands the learning curve is most times a bitch to beat. In any case, she isn’t afraid of the long hours and the hard work; she doesn’t even mind being micromanaged at times.

The truth is, the part where Lexa is there? Is the part she minds the least.

“You gotta pace yourself, Griffin,” Raven tells her once, handing her coffee over. “We’re not even at halftime yet.”

Clarke smiles, eyeing Raven over the rim of her cup as she sips her coffee slowly. Raven knows how Clarke spent her weekend proofreading Lexa’s presentations and drafting her talk points for her Monday meetings, and the lost weekend must be so visible on Clarke’s face right now.

“I am, you know. Pacing myself,” Clarke insists, but she herself can hear how her voice betrays an exhaustion that is practically out of place on a Tuesday morning. _Well, you knew what you were getting into,_ she tells herself. As she always does. But then, seeing how Raven is still looking at her like _that_ , Clarke just narrows her eyes slightly: “Is this your guilt talking?”

Raven rolls her eyes in response. “Absolutely,” she just says dramatically, nudging Clarke’s shoulder with her own. Clarke lets out a soft yelp. “No, I mean—I’m _serious._ Get some sleep or something.”

“I _am_ getting some sleep.”

“This couch doesn’t count,” says Raven. “I mean it.”

Clarke nods, letting herself sink into the couch pillows. “Fine,” she says. “Tonight, I promise.”

Clarke barely holds onto that promise after being roped into a dinner meeting—Lexa likes having her around even during informal get-togethers with sources and often prefers Clarke’s notes to her own.

Clarke takes those meetings as opportunities to study Lexa further—how she speaks, how she thinks, how she manages to get the other party to trust her well enough to tell her the truth. For all of Clarke’s experience in selling things, ideas, people—she is more than pleasantly surprised to find there are still many things to learn, not the least from a seasoned journalist like Lexa.

Not that Clarke hasn’t learned enough from her previous clients—just that with Lexa, everything seems so _effortless:_ The offhand charm and flexible, androgynous appeal, coupled with her firm, unshakeable resolve and confidence whenever warranted—they’re actually pretty effective, all considered.

“Clarke?”

_Oh._ Clarke blinks, snapped out of thought. She finds herself back in the present, sitting beside Lexa at the back of her SUV, holding her notes. “Sorry,” says Clarke, clearing her throat. “You were saying?”

“I said I’m dropping you off at home,” says Lexa, not looking up from her laptop screen. “It’s late.”

Clarke rubs her eyes, suddenly hyperaware of their weight. “You sure? I could take a cab from the office, it’s fine—”

“It’s on the way,” says Lexa, taking her eyes off briefly from what she’s writing if only to make eye contact with Gustus at the rearview mirror. “You know where it is, Gustus?”

Gustus just nods, making a noncommittal sound. Lexa turns back to her screen, the sounds of her keystrokes filling the quiet of their car.

“Thank you,” says Clarke after a while, feeling the exhaustion wrap around her bones. And then: “That was a good meeting, wasn’t it?”

Lexa takes a moment to close her laptop with a soft click before sighing. When Clarke looks at her, she feels that Lexa must be just as tired, though she’s still trying to not let it show. “It was,” she says, smile tight and eyes closed. “I mean, for members of a charismatic group, they seemed pretty _progressive_.”

Clarke feels herself smiling in kind. “I'm surprised they're coming forward with that information—they still do a soft bloc vote, after all. Maybe the winds are changing,” she says, opening her notebook and scribbling—only to be interrupted by Lexa’s hand reaching over and gently closing it.

“Tomorrow,” Lexa says, just as they roll up toward Clarke’s building. "It's been a long day."

"It has," Clarke concedes, stealing a glance at Lexa, who is looking out her own window—anywhere than the space where their hands are almost touching. "You should take a rest yourself."

Lexa laughs, remembering to pull her hand back to fiddle with her collar. "I will try," she says. And then, sensing that Gustus has slowed to a stop: "We're here."

"Oh." Clarke gathers her things and straightens her skirt. "Thank you." And then, turning back to Lexa: "Good night, Ms Vine."

"Good night, Ms Griffin."

*

The afternoon after she attends her first board meeting with Lexa and Anya, about a couple of months into the job, Clarke sports the biggest migraine.

"How was it?" asks Kane, who calls Clarke right after. "Did you meet—"

Clarke sighs, pressing a fingertip into her temple. "Yes I did," she says. "Cage was there, and so were the Azgedas, and the other business unit heads." Just picturing them again gathered around the huge oval table in the board room made the acid in her stomach hiss lightly. The mother and son tandem of Nia and Roan Azgeda still led the Board, as they held the most number of stocks.

"And how was—"

"She was great," Clarke interrupts. And then, realizing her enthusiasm, she clears her throat. "I mean, unsurprisingly, Lexa could handle herself well in the board room. Considering Editorial was outnumbered."

"Her father was among the stalwarts of the original paper," says Kane. "One of a handful who did not cede their stocks to the Azgedas when they came scouting."

"Must have taken quite the journalist to take a stand like that," says Clarke. "I doubt Cage could ever be half the man Alexander was."

There's a silent beat on Kane's end that has Clarke wondering.

"You sound like you knew him," Clarke quips. "Colleagues?"

"Sort of," says Kane. "Hard not to have known him when you're practically in the same circles, once upon a time."

Clarke makes a small 'ah'. "That old boys journo club?"

"Something like that, yeah," he says. "Alexander and I were in university together."

"Of course," says Clarke, finding it hard to believe that she hasn't made the connection earlier. "Same course?"

"But different endings," says Kane. "It's a difficult job, newspapering."

"Doesn't quite pay as well, I suppose?"

Kane lets out a dry laugh. "Still doesn't, not quite."

Clarke laughs. "Alexander did not seem to mind," she chides Kane, though she knows very well where Kane is coming from—some people did not have the luxury of a low-paying calling. "He must have been really good at what he did."

"You could tell, even when we were younger—he had a fire that no one else seemed to have," says Kane. "He was hardheaded yet soft-hearted. I suppose that's what did him in, in the end, too."

"He was too trusting?"

"He was too open," Kane corrects. "I believe people wanted him to have more security closer to the assassination. He wouldn't have any of it."

"Bravado? Machismo?"

"He was allergic to special treatment," says Kane. "Maybe Lexa takes after him in that regard."

Clarke sees Lexa in her mind's eye again, back at the board room, going head to head with Cage and the Azgedas, seemingly alone in her mission to keep editorial away from business's influence—and rightly so. _A fire in her eye,_ Kane would have said, had he been there. Maybe the same one her father had.

"How did she fare?" asks Kane. "Did the board give her much of a hard time?"

"They did," says Clarke. "They're cutting her budget left and right, and she needs more reporters than ever, coming into election season. They're having none of it, but Lexa—whew," Clarke lets out a breath, remembering how Lexa had raised her voice lightly when she made an extra forceful point, the muscles of her forearms flexing under her rolled-up sleeves.

"She's having none of it too, I suppose."

"My bet's on Lexa, all the way," says Clarke, catching even herself aback. For the first time since they started this engagement, Clarke actually thinks Lexa has a chance in this—no matter how badly the chances are stacked against her and her team.

"I've never heard you this hopeful again, Clarke," Kane muses. "Do you still regret taking this on?"

_Maybe not in the way you think,_ Clarke almost says, but she hangs up instead after saying goodbye.

After hanging up on Kane, Clarke walks over to Lexa's door and knocks. From the inside, Lexa calls out a soft, 'Door's open, come in,' and Clarke steps in gingerly, closing the door quietly behind her.

Lexa looks up from the paper she's reading and smiles, though it betrays her exhaustion anyway. "Hello, Clarke," she greets. "I thought you'd left for the day. Our agenda's only the meeting earlier anyhow."

"Well," says Clarke, perching herself upon the corner of Lexa's table. "Figured I'd hang around in case you needed someone to... talk it out with?"

"The meeting?"

"Yeah," says Clarke. "It got... pretty intense at parts, didn't it? Was it usually like that?"

Lexa leans back against her chair, threading her fingers behind her head and stretching. "Only when Editorial's around, usually," she admits."We're the life of the party, sure."

"Hardly a party out there," Clarke counters. "Especially that guy Cage."

"Cage is an asshole," Lexa dismisses breezily, and Clarke can't help the laugh that escapes her. It makes Lexa laugh lightly in kind. "What? Wasn't it obvious?"

"It was," Clarke nods. "I was just—surprised, I guess, that you'd point it out."

"Spade's a spade, Clarke," she tells her. And then, growing more serious, "Certainly you can see why Cage can't possibly assume Editorial leadership."

"He's unfit for the job," Clarke replies. "He'll ruin the paper's reputation."

Lexa takes a deep breath and sighs. "My father would certainly—" And then, seemingly catching herself, "You know that, right? That my father had been one of the paper’s original stakeholders?"

"Kane told me," Clarke admits.

Lexa smiles, but Clarke can see the sadness right behind it. "He and my dad went to college together," says Lexa. She looks out her window at that, like she's trying to hide from Clarke what she's really thinking about, which must have been so plain to see on her face. "It was a long time ago."

"Kane's a good man," Clarke says. "He and your father were. That's why they won't stand for this—for Cage."

Lexa shakes her head. "Cage has some bad ideas for this paper," she says. "And the Azgedas would probably let him do it—for the right price."

It makes Clarke's stomach turn—the consequences are too dire. "Cage's political alliances are terrible."

"He's going to turn the paper into a candidate's mouthpiece, if given a shot," Lexa says. "We can't have him doing that. Not so close to an election year."

"The candidate he'll support—he'll help bring an old strongman's son to power, that's what he'll do," says Clarke. Lexa stands at that, and Clarke follows her with her eyes as she starts pacing around the room. At some point, Lexa pauses by a corner, staring at the wall as she fixes her rolled-up sleeves.

Clarke chances upon a tattoo that ends just above Lexa's elbow, peeking through the edge. She promptly looks away, swallowing hard.

"We won't let that happen," says Lexa, turning back to Clarke, face set and determined. It takes Clarke aback slightly, how easy Lexa flows from wistful to serious. And then, relaxing a bit: "Are you hungry?"

Clarke blinks. Suddenly, she is aware of the slight growl of her stomach. “Kind of,” she admits. "But it could wait, if we're still—"

"Nonsense," says Lexa, picking up her phone and making a call. From the sound of it, she sounds like she's talking to her driver Gustus. She smiles as she takes a glance at Clarke, like she's almost shy; it unnerves Clarke in that inexplicable way that she hasn't quite let herself think about just yet.

_Ah, shit._ Clarke slips her phone out, trying to look for a distraction of her own.

"Sorry about that," says Lexa after, clearing her throat.

Clarke looks up from her phone. "You got somewhere else to be?"

Lexa shrugs. "I was wondering—if you'd like to join me for dinner," she says slowly. It's out like she's measuring the words as they came out, weighing them carefully. "But only if you'd like."

Clarke's stomach takes that moment to grumble a little too loudly. "Of course," she says, just as Lexa laughs softly. "If it's no trouble."

"It isn't," says Lexa, moving for the door and getting her coat along the way, slinging it casually over one shoulder. "Come?" she says, eyeing Clarke as she holds the door open. "Gustus should be around soon."

*

The restaurant Lexa takes them to is one Clarke's never been to before. Located at the penthouse of a new building just around the block, it has a fantastic view of the city at night. Clarke looks around—not too many people around now, given how late it already is. The waiter approaches Lexa with a familiar, practised ease—she's been here before, and she's been recognized.

"How do you know this place?" Clarke asks, browsing the menu that's just been handed to her.

"One of our lifestyle writers reviewed it," Lexa replies. "Thought I'd give it a try once, liked it, been coming back since—if only for the wine and the quiet."

"Alone?"

Lexa tries to temper her smile. "Are you asking if I go out on dates, Ms Griffin?"

Clarke bites her lip at that, furrowing her brow as she pretends to concentrate on the menu—to be honest, she's been trying to read and re-read the same item for five minutes now, distracted as she is by Lexa's face in the low-light.

_This does not bode well,_ she thinks. _Take it a notch lower, Griffin._ "Just making conversation, Vine," she says lightly before raising her hand to call the waiter back.

Lexa laughs and shrugs. "I sound like a loser, but I do like dining alone after a long night at the office—and this one's the only thing open around the area."

"Your nights do end really late," says Clarke. "Do you ever get out of there earlier than 10?"

"Barely these days," Lexa admits. When the waiter comes with their orders, Lexa takes a sip from her glass immediately. She'd ordered red with their steak, and it reflects a soft pink glow upon her face in this light. "Would perhaps only get worse when I officially become Executive Editor—did you know we stopped the press when the new Pope was elected? It was far too late, but we did it anyway."

"Probably worth it," says Clarke. "To be the paper of record—am I right?

"Spent a few days in the Newseum—which was so extraordinarily pleasing."

"Nerd," Clarke admonishes gently, laughing in between bites. She's surprised at how easy this could be—her first free-flowing conversation Lexa, who is technically her boss, who is having a glass of wine over dinner with her after a long day.

"It was—my dad wanted so badly to be editor-in-chief," says Lexa, voice now quiet. "It broke his heart when he did not get it. Looking back, had he not gotten ambushed like he did, he would have died of the broken heart anyway."

Clarke reaches out to touch Lexa's hand on the table briefly. "I'm really sorry about your dad. I remember that—it was such big news back in the day."

"Some days it still feels so near," says Lexa. She does not move her hand away; Clarke takes it as permission to linger. "It still feels as if—he's cast such a long shadow in this industry, and it still has a very observable weight."

"You feel pressured."

"Every day," says Lexa, leaning back and taking another sip of wine, slipping away from Clarke's grasp as she does so. "It's like there's no room for anything else, actually."

Clarke raises her brow at that. "What do you mean?"

"It means this job hasn't exactly let me hold down a relationship or what-not," says Lexa, and Clarke tries to hide the way her eyes had widened at that reveal. _Invested much?_ "This newspaper and I are technically _married_. Nothing more, nothing less."

Clarke has to tighten her hold on her wine glass. "Nothing wrong with being a woman focused on her career," she says.

"Try telling my ex-girlfriend that," Lexa just quips under her breath. The way she says it—like she doesn't even care that Clarke is close enough to hear it. "But—enough about me and my terrible love life. Sorry. What about—how are you, Clarke?"

_After all that, you're asking me?_ Clarke takes a huge gulp from her wine glass and asks for a refill, for good measure. "I can't quite say I'm in any better position, love life-wise," she begins. "But I'm all right."

"Nothing wrong with a woman focused on her career, you said," says Lexa, smiling. She's got a definite blush now, something that isn't just a reflection of the red wine in her glass. "Why did you want to retire early, Clarke?"

_Oh boy,_ Clarke just thinks. She knew that sooner or later she had to come clean about _all that,_ but she did not expect it to be like _this._ "Long story," she says.

Lexa leans in, chin resting on a hand. "I love long stories."

Clarke takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, the exhale sounding more and more like a small laugh. And then, composing herself: "I've worked with Kane and Raven before," she begins. "It wasn't—I wasn't always proud of it. Of what we did."

"My father and Kane had fundamental differences, which was why Kane had to leave the newsroom,” says Lexa. "I knew he was a political operator."

Clarke nods. "Kane's network of contacts lent itself to that sort of gig," she explains. "We handled all sorts of clients—big pharma, tobacco, online gambling outfits—Raven and I made campaigns for them, and Kane handled some legislative lobby work."

"You did not like what you were doing?"

Clarke looks away at that, fixing her eye at some faraway point in the night horizon, past the lights below. "It didn't feel... _right,_ " she says. "I mean, sure, it paid good money, and I needed that money at the time—personal reasons," she says. "So when that need went away, I went back to Kane one last time and said I wanted to do _one last good thing._ "

"Which was?"

"We ran a political campaign. One that was good," says Clarke, swallowing the lump in her throat, that one she always gets when she remembers just how terribly it went; how it had been her fault. "The guy we supported was an honest-to-goodness guy, human rights lawyer, teacher, all that jazz. He was _good._ "

"But he lost, didn't he?"

Clarke blinks. "How'd you know?"

“Call it a journalist’s hunch.“

"Touché," Clarke concedes. "But apart from the pointlessness of it all—you should know, that guy was doing well, up until the part where they figured out who was doing his PR."

"They found you out."

"They threw all our past clients at him, as if it were his fault that his volunteer PR team had been henchmen for all these terrible companies," says Clarke, clearing her throat to keep her voice from breaking. "He didn't stand a chance."

After a moment's silence, it's Lexa's turn to reach for Clarke's hand on the table. "It wasn't your fault, Clarke," she just says. "We do what we have to when the time comes for us. And at those times, those jobs were what you needed to do."

"When Kane approached me about you, I didn't want to take it—I was truly so done," Clarke admits. "But when he explained how different it would be this time—that we wouldn't be taking the candidate head-on—I figured, maybe it was worth a shot."

"I'm glad you think so," Lexa just says. "These affairs are so important to be given up on by far too many excellent people. I'm glad you're back in the fight."

Clarke would have managed some dignified response, had Lexa not taken to absently rubbing her wrist with a finger; a gesture of comfort, certainly, but one that just has Clarke's mind on overdrive.

_Ah shit,_ she just thinks, watching their joined hands on the table, thinking about her untouched wine and the days ahead, how distracting it could be, and how fatal this feeling is.

"Clarke?"

That jolts her out of her thoughts, and she takes her hand back in surprise, the move so sudden it's as if she was scalded. "Sorry," she just says, moving for the wine finally. "I was—it must be the late hour."

Lexa takes a glance at her watch. "It's late," she says. "Let me take this, then take you home."

"Oh," Clarke says. "No, that's okay—"

"I _insist,_ " says Lexa. "Take it like a thank you—for a job well-done today at the board meeting."

_A thank you for a job well done,_ Clarke echoes in her mind, trying to focus, despite the wine-buzz clouding her brain. After a brief back and forth as to who finally gets the bill, Lexa settles for Clarke's proposed split—Lexa can pay for dinner if she lets Clarke take care of one last round of drinks.

They take them out on the veranda, where the wind is just the right kind of chilly. At least, it's dark enough here for Clarke to openly observe the way Lexa's hair blows in the wind—she can always chalk it up to windburn, should she have a noticeable blush.

"Are you having second thoughts?"

The question jolts Clarke right out of her drunken stupor. "Excuse me?"

"About the job," Lexa clarifies. "As I've said—it could get all sorts of intense. Is it—"

"No, of course not," says Clarke, wondering how her face looks like right now for Lexa to have the sort of idea. "What made you ask?"

"Just a feeling," says Lexa. "You feel very... conflicted right now. Sorry, am I making sense, or is this just freaking you out all the more—it's only the wine, I assure you."

"You're very... _perceptive._ For a wine-drunk person, I mean."

"Sorry—I didn't mean to put you on the spot, or anything," says Lexa, scratching the back of her neck. _There goes that ghost of that tattoo again,_ Clarke muses, following the movement of her arm. "But you should know, these are matters that you could come and talk to me about."

"I know—it's very thoughtful of you, actually, but I'm fine. The board meeting was just—exhausting, is all. It's been a long day."

"In my defense, you're the one who wanted to keep drinking," Lexa chides her.

"And I wholeheartedly take responsibility for this part," Clarke says, laughing. When it dies out, she still has her eye on Lexa's sleeve. “Can I ask you about something potentially personal?“

"Oh?"

Clarke reaches over, runs her hand across the space where the sleeve of Lexa’s shirt ends and the skin begins. “This tattoo. I saw it earlier when you rolled your sleeves up, is all."

Lexa shrugs, unbuttoning the sleeve to hike it further. "This?" she asks. By the looks of the design, it could go further up her bicep, and Clarke has to grip her glass tighter to keep from touching. "Got it right after graduation, didn’t give it much thought,” she says. "My dad did not approve initially, but what could he do?" And then: "Is that all of your questions, Ms Griffin?"

Clarke breathes out, before finishing her drink. "Thank you for indulging me, Ms Vine."

"As a journalist, I know how it feels like to have a question you're itching to get answered," she just says, downing the rest of her drink in kind. “One day, I’ll let you return the favor—but not today.“ Clarke’s breath hitches at that. “So—shall we?”

Clarke lets herself be led out of the restaurant, Lexa's hand at the small of her back all the way to the elevator. She wonders if it's the wine, or if it was just Lexa, who's had a bit of drink. Or maybe Lexa thinks _she's_ had a bit too much to drink, thus requiring some semblance of assistance?

Clarke turns to look at the mirror, fixing her hair. She is so flushed from the wine—this much is evident in the stark lighting of the elevator. Behind her, Lexa is busy texting, as put-together as ever, save for the slight wrinkles on the sleeve she'd rearranged for Clarke's curiosity.

_It's the wine,_ Clarke tells her reflection. _Pull yourself together._

But when the elevator dings open at the parking floor, Lexa puts her hand back, settling warmly on Clarke’s hip now as she ushers Clarke out and just like that, Clarke is back to square one.

Gustus arrives a few moments later, and Clarke climbs into the back of Lexa's car as before, still feeling all too warm.

"You okay?" Lexa asks. There's room in the backseat but they're sitting so closely anyway, knees touching. "You were quiet on the way down, I was wondering if you were feeling all right. All those drinks—"

Despite herself, Clarke licks her lips; they feel so damn dry, it's embarrassing. "I'm okay," she says, tugging at her own collar. "Just a bit warm." She can't help it, not with Lexa being this close and looking like this—so relaxed in her dress shirt, and that button undone.

_This is such a bad idea,_ Clarke tells herself over and over, yet she feels herself draw closer anyway. _It's the wine, it's the wine, it's the wine—_

"Clarke," Lexa calls out softly—so soft it's impossible for her to not have an idea what this is or what this could be. _Does she think it's a bad idea, too?_

The moment lasts for a split-second or an hour; Clarke couldn't tell, lost as she was in it, until Gustus finally stops and clears his throat. "Ms Griffin," he calls out, voice low. "We're here."

And just like that, Clarke snaps out of it, and it all comes flooding in—the alarm, the surprise, the embarrassment all at once. "Oh," she says out loud. And then, catching Lexa's eye— _how could it be this steady all this time?—_ "Oh. _Oh._ Shit, Lexa, I'm so sorry—"

"Clarke," Lexa just says again, still soft, still kind. "We're here. Are you going to be okay?" She tucks a stray strand of hair behind Clarke's ear before rubbing at Clarke's shoulder.

"Yes," Clarke manages finally, gathering her things. "I—thank you, Lexa."

"Good night, Clarke," she just says, as Clarke opens her door and gets out.

"Good night, Lexa," says Clarke in return, before shutting it and heading for her building's door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C says to post this update on the occasion of our anniversary, so here it is. Happy anniversary, love. Thank you for being patient with this (and me, in general, <3)


	3. the challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. Happy New Year, and enjoy :)

Lexa is late.

Clarke looks around awkwardly in the quiet room—it feels like they’d been hauled into an adult-equivalent of a principal’s office, only the principal is not yet there. Kane takes the seat across Lexa’s table, checking his phone and alternately looking at his watch, while she and Raven sit on the couch by the door, fiddling with their respective screens.

Lexa is never late. It worries Clarke slightly—after all, she was technically ‘last touch’. _Don’t even—not like that,_ Clarke chastises her own brain for even thinking of it that way. That’s the last thing she needs to be thinking about anyway.

The door opens, and on cue the three of them look up, straightening against their respective seats, only to find that it’s Anya rushing in, thinking she’s late, an apology already at her lips.

“Sorry—am I in the wrong meeting?” asks Anya, but she’s looking mostly at Raven, so Clarke lets her answer.

“We’re waiting for Lexa,” Raven just says. “Are _you_ in the wrong meeting?”

Anya furrows her brow before getting the joke. “Oh,” she just says, sitting on the couch arm near Raven. “I guess I’m in the right meeting then. Lexa’s cascade of yesterday’s board meeting, right?”

“Right,” Kane replies. He’s begun tapping his feet idly, arms crossed. “Would you know where—”

“Sorry, people,” As if summoned, Lexa strides into her own door, smoothing the front of her shirt as she glances at Clarke with a small, apologetic smile— _she’s okay, thank God,_ Clarke thinks automatically. There’s one worry off the top of her head, for starters.

“Well, this is new,” Anya quips, though not unkindly. “You’re late to your own meeting.”

“I know,” says Lexa, laying her laptop bag on her table and slipping it out. “On the way up, I ran into Roan.”

“What did he want?” Clarke asks. Roan was for the most part quiet during yesterday’s meeting—was there anything he wanted to speak to Lexa with?

“Coffee,” Lexa sighs. “And your number, apparently, Ms Griffin.” There’s an edge to the way Lexa says it that Clarke has to immediately bite on her lip to keep from making some inappropriate response.

“I expected myself to be more surprised, but I’m not,” says Raven, keeping it light. Clarke just digs an elbow to her side, causing her to yelp softly in surprise.

“Anyway,” says Kane, trying to steer the meeting into order. “What did you think about yesterday’s meeting?”

Lexa sits as she opens her laptop, stowing away her bag. “More of the same,” says Lexa. “All this talk about production deadlines and cutting back editorial space in favor of adding to advertising space. Like it’s our fault the President keeps making banner announcements at 6 p.m.”

“Clarke has some interesting insights about that—she’ll share with the group later,” Kane interrupts. “Was Cage there?”

“Cage’s airtime was a waste of time, but it wasn’t new,” says Lexa. “Not sure how he does it, but he has the Azgedas wrapped around his finger, or something. So enamored.”

“He’s got that dangerous charm about him that Nia probably likes,” says Raven. And then, glancing at Clarke, “Cage is like Roan but… well-packaged.”

“I officially have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Clarke, sneaking a glance at Lexa in turn. Their eyes meet for a second before Lexa looks down, presumably to look for something on her screen. “But I do have to agree with Lexa’s assessment—Cage is all talk, but if you listen to what he’s really saying—he’s not really saying anything.”

“I’ve sat in a few meetings with Cage—he presents well, but it’s all that and nothing but,” says Anya. “It’s the showmanship—and that’s dangerous.”

“Editorial does not need a showman—it needs an Executive Editor,” says Kane. “From initial intel, it does seem like Cage’s influence on the Azgedas goes deeper and further back. Nia and Dante’s circles are understandably intertwined, business-wise.”

“I wonder how Cage and Roan get on,” asks Raven. “I mean—are they technically competing to inherit this empire?”

“Practically grew up together, all things considered—went to the same schools, even. I mean, all the rich boys do, don’t they?” says Clarke. “But I didn’t really catch much from Roan yesterday.”

“He doesn’t like talking much,” says Lexa, and when Clarke catches her eye, she realizes she’s been staring at her all this while. “For that alone, I like him better already.” There’s a light moment that goes around the room, and it allows Lexa to throw a quick smile Clarke’s way. It goes straight down Clarke’s spine.

“I think he doesn’t like Cage that much,” says Anya. “Or maybe it’s just idle talk among the drivers.”

“That’s one thing Roan has going for him—he’s head of the troops,” Lexa explains, off the question on Kane’s face. “He handles the distribution side of the business, so he’s got the forwarders in his corner, the regional and provincial distributors, even the smaller players. He’s also out often on branch calls, so he’s around the drivers a lot. They like him—see him as one of them.”

“A man who could get his hands dirty,” Raven muses, leaning closer to Clarke. “Maybe you should give him your number.”

“Raven,” Clarke decks her again. Anya just laughs.

Lexa, on the other hand, reaches for a bottle of water, coughing. “Sorry.” She keeps her eyes glued to her screen, no matter how hard Clarke stares at her, like she’s challenging her to look back. “As I was saying—I’m pretty sure Roan isn’t gunning for an Editorial leadership role, but he’s no Cage supporter either.”

“Aside from Cage—who else was on yesterday’s meeting?” Kane asks.

Lexa takes a moment before replying. “Titus Sand. Had an interesting proposal to bring in a foreign design consultant—something about revamping the Page One look and making it more ‘at par with the world’, whatever that means.”

“Are the Azgedas into it?”

“Couldn’t tell just yet—maybe depends on how much it would cost.”

“Or how good Cage could probably sell it to them,” Anya chimes in. “Cage and Titus are pretty close. I see them walking into the building together a lot.”

“The Executive Editor should have a weighty say on that Page One revamp at least,” says Clarke.

“Safe to say Titus would be backing Cage’s bid for it then,” says Raven.

A quiet moment passes above them—it’s like they’re tallying who goes where. Cage has Titus, Lexa has Roan—or at the very least, Cage does not have him. At this point, perhaps it’s just a matter of who’s going to get to Nia first.

“What do you think, Clarke?” Lexa speaks up finally, breaking the quiet. “Maybe we can listen to the sentiment report.”

Clarke nods, opening her laptop in kind. “It’s been quite the week so far—we’ve had some pretty strong reactions on your recent exposé about customs corruption in the smuggled luxury cars case. Also traveled well online,” Clarke begins. “People are angry, but it gets muddled, as it usually does—they’re angry at the government at first, then they’re angry at each other the rest of the time. It’s not just exhausting—it’s inaccurate, if we want to measure sentiment on the issue itself.”

“We’ve been tracking your Presidential announcement stories this past quarter—they’re getting less traction compared to your long-haul investigative efforts, particularly online,” says Kane. “People are tired of seemingly inconsequential announcements from the Office.”

“Must be,” says Clarke. “Unless it’s announcement of signed holidays—in which case, people _really_ like announcements of signed holidays.”

“It’s like he gets on it just to announce they’ve been meeting that day, or something,” says Lexa. “But we can’t not say something—it’s the _Office_.”

“You could maybe prioritize accordingly, resources-wise—if only to keep going with the investigative pieces despite the reduced manpower,” Kane suggests. “Speaking of investigative pieces—I have something to pitch after Clarke’s report.”

Clarke feels her eyes go wide—this is a new development. “I can send the report afterwards—what do you have up your sleeve, Marcus, that you have not been telling us?”

Kane breathes in, before laying a thick document envelope on Lexa’s table. “I had to make sure I had the sources before I said anything.”

Lexa leans in at that, eyes shining with anticipation. “What’s this?”

“Bank records.”

“Of who?”

“Cage Wallace.”

The room falls silent as everyone waits for Lexa to open the envelope on her desk finally. Inside, there is a thick clear folder that is bursting at the seams. “What’s the story, Marcus?”

*

“You’re telling me they’re filing this case in a couple of weeks?” Lexa asks.

Kane nods. “All of them—falsification of documents and bribery both,” he says.

“And they’re willing to go on record for it?”

“Yes, but after the filing. Put your justice reporter on it,” he says, scribbling the filing details on a piece of paper and handing it to Lexa.

“You do understand Cage will do everything in his power to stop this story from getting out, right?” Anya points out.

“Not if we come out with part one on the day of filing,” says Lexa, looking around the room as if seeking agreement until she lands on Clarke’s eyes—and stays there. “And keep it under wraps until then.”

“Who’s writing it then?” Clarke asks, though the look on Lexa’s eyes already says as much—there’s no way this assignment is getting out of this room.

“Let me handle that problem,” Lexa says, pulling the files closer for scrutiny. “Give me an hour to get through these papers, all right?”

By any standards, that’s Lexa-speak for meeting adjourned. Kane gets up and the rest of them follow suit. Beside Clarke, Raven leans in to whisper, “I need a cigarette after that.”

Clarke just nods, but after taking a glance at Lexa, she just signals for Raven to go ahead. “I’ll catch up with you at the rooftop, OK?”

When the room clears and Clarke finds herself alone with Lexa, she approaches the table slowly, careful not to disturb her.

“You needed something Clarke?” she asks, not even looking up from the papers, her tone neutral. No trace of the night before—none at all. It deflates Clarke, a little.

“I—I just wanted to apologize. For last night.”

“Apologize?” This time, there’s a distinct curiosity in Lexa’s tone, mixed-in with surprise. “What for?”

Clarke inhales. “I was—I had a bit too much to drink, and I may have… _behaved_ inappropriately, at some point, and I didn’t—” Clarke shakes her head. _This is pointless._ She has bigger things to think about. “You know what, nevermind. I just—we’re okay here, right?”

Lexa pauses from flipping through her papers to look up at Clarke. “Of course,” she says. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

Clarke blinks. _That’s that?_ “Of course,” she says back, after a while. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

Just as she’s about to go through the door, Lexa calls out for her again. “Clarke,” she says, and Clarke looks back, pausing by the doorway. “You do know I don’t want to give your number to Roan Azgeda, right?”

Clarke feels the blood rush to her head; it makes her feel a bit dizzy, somewhat. She hadn’t expected Lexa to address that, of all things. “Oh?” she just manages to say. “Why is that?”

Lexa tilts her head, and in a flash of a moment, there’s that look in her eye that takes Clarke back to the previous night, and the half-light of the bar. And then, very quietly: “You know why.”

It takes the air out of Clarke’s lungs for a moment. _Is she saying what I think she’s saying?_ But then, all Clarke has to do is look at the pile of bank records on her table to immediately rid herself of such illusions. _This is absurd. You don’t have time for this—the both of you._ Still, Clarke finds herself only nodding. “Call if you need me,” she just says, closing the door after her, the thud of it matching the sound in her chest.

*

She’s on her way to the fire exit passage to the rooftop when her phone dings—it’s Raven. “Where are you?” Clarke slips it back into her pocket as she pushes the door open and steps out onto the roof.

“Took you long enough,” says Raven, already halfway through a cigarette. She offers the pack to Clarke and helps her light it; a proper struggle, considering the winds at the top of the building. “Did Lexa need anything?”

Clarke takes a drag, then shakes her head. “It was nothing,” she says. “What did you think about all that earlier?”

Raven exhales, the smoke escaping in a thin column from her lips. “Kane that motherfucker,” she says, grinning. “He truly dropped a bombshell of a surprise.”

“You think Lexa would publish?”

“You’re afraid for her,” says Raven. Not a question, but a flat-out observation. “Not that it’s my business but—you do know it’s distraction, right? For the both of you.”

Clarke nods. After all these years, Raven still is as perceptive as ever. “I’m just admiring, you know,” she concedes. “Women and power-dressing—you know how that goes.”

Raven nudges her, laughing lightly. “You’re so predictable, Griffin,” she just says. “I saw how the both of you were reacting to the whole Roan thing—it was truly amusing, what one could read off your faces,” she says.

“Seriously, Raven.” It’s Clarke’s turn to shove Raven’s shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“She walked right into it,” says Raven, shrugging. “I was only making the most out of the information you’re giving me.”

“Unbelievable,” says Clarke, laughing. In her chest, there’s a feeling that almost registers as relief. “But really—could you blame me?”

“I actually could not,” Raven concedes. “From your first meeting, I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“She’s just—she knows what she’s doing and how to get what she wants, and I just—I am severely invested in her success in this, know what I mean?”

“God Griffin, you’re going to be the best girlfriend ever, but could you possibly maybe have better timing? This is the most terrible timing for something like this.”

“I know,” Clarke says, taking one last drag before crushing it against the nearby ashtray. “But it is what it is—who knows, maybe it’d go away on its own.”

“Good luck with that, G,” Raven just says, stubbing out her own cigarette. “Now I have some errands to run for Kane’s bombshell—you coming?”

Clarke shakes her head. “Got some errands of my own to run,” she just says. She thinks about the sentiment report still setting in her laptop unsent, for a brief second. But mostly, she’s thinking about asking Lexa out to lunch.

“All right then,” says Raven, giving Clarke a big hug before heading for the stairs. “Text me.”

*

Raven has just disappeared into the fire exit when Clarke’s phone starts ringing. Again.

“Where are you?” This time, it’s Lexa, and Clarke feels her ears burn.

“Rooftop,” she says. “On my way back there. What’s up?”

“Oh,” says Lexa. “I was just wondering if you wanted to get some lunch.”

Clarke’s breath hitches in her throat as she starts to go down the stairs. “I was planning to ask about the same thing, actually,” she says.

“Oh,” Lexa says again, but with a laugh this time. _Is she nervous?_ “So—do I wait for you here, or?”

Clarke feels her pace quicken at that. “Sure, yeah,” she says, trying to keep the breathlessness out of her voice. “I’m almost there. Give me a minute.”

Clarke still has her phone against her ear as she pushes into Lexa’s office—upon which she is greeted by the sight of Lexa behind her table, holding her phone against her ear in kind.

It’s such a ridiculously adorable sight that Clarke has to laugh out loud herself as she slowly puts her phone back in her pocket. “Sorry—that took a bit, didn’t it?”

Lexa takes a moment to compose herself, only to end up laughing. “Yeah—well, no, not really. You were really quick—you could have taken your time, it would totally have been OK for me to wait.”

“Nope, lunch shouldn’t wait,” Clarke insists, and Lexa finds herself standing at that. “Besides—don’t you usually have a 1:30?”

Lexa grimaces as she takes a glimpse at her watch. “I actually do,” she admits. “But at least we still have an hour or so.”

“We could walk, get a quick Sub,” Clarke suggests.

“Not feeling our cafeteria today?”

It’s Clarke’s turn to make a face. “Not really. Unless you are?”

“Not in particular,” says Lexa, adjusting her sleeves to get ready. “Shall we?”

The lunch hour crowd is not particularly busy, so the streets are practically empty, save for employees of nearby buildings also out looking for lunch. The nearest restaurant row is a couple of streets across, and by the time they get there, a considerable line has already formed. Lexa greets a few Editorial teammates also on the queue, introducing Clarke casually. For the most part, Clarke is surprised at the easy acknowledgement—though she’d spent a considerable time in the newsroom by now, and has been attending a good number of meetings, Clarke hadn’t expected to be recognized at all.

Lexa suggests they take it back to her office—the tables are full, and it’s just cloudy enough for the walk back. Clarke doesn’t mind—why would she, when this was the scenario she’d been hoping for, in the first place?

 _Stop that, Griffin,_ she reminds herself, trying to ignore the way Lexa walks so closely to her on the way back.

In her office, Lexa closes the door and turns the lights off. “They come knocking when the lights are on,” Lexa explains, even before Clarke has the time to actually ask the question out loud. “When the lights are off, they assume I’m not here, or I’m napping.”

Clarke giggles lightly at the visual—Lexa with her head on her arms, sleeping on her desk. “You’d never,” she just says, eyeing Lexa incredulously.

“Oh, I definitely do,” Lexa says confidently, smirking. “Been caught at it, too.”

“Hah,” says Clarke. “Must have been so awkward for whoever finds you. Imagine trying to wake up the boss.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation—it’s always Anya who finds me.”

“Lucky you, then.”

“Hardly,” says Lexa. “I never hear the end of it.”

“Maybe you should consider locking your door then,” says Clarke. The suggestion is out even before she realizes how it must sounded. _Shit shit shit—_

“Maybe I would,” Lexa replies gamely, a twinkle of mischief coming upon her eye—a second there, the next gone. “Listen, Clarke. I wanted to ask you something.”

Clarke feels her stomach plummet. _This is never a good segue,_ she thinks. “What is it?”

“I’ve studied the first few parts of Kane’s files,” Lexa begins, and Clarke feels herself exhale.

_At least we’re back to shop talk, it seems._

“That’s quite the intimidating volume,” says Clarke. “I imagine it would take a few days for a _team_ to comb through it.”

“That’s the thing,” Lexa says, biting into her sandwich. “I don’t think I could involve anyone else in this.”

Clarke pauses mid-bite, before carefully tearing herself away from her sub. “You can’t be serious,” she says slowly. “Are you planning on taking that project on by yourself?”

“I’m not,” Lexa says, chewing. “I was going to ask you to help me work on it.”

_tbc_


End file.
